


Safe Holdings

by Verabird



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 03:41:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13604790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verabird/pseuds/Verabird
Summary: Endeavour is held hostage and Fred must come to the rescue.





	Safe Holdings

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this two years ago for an anon meme and I didn't want to lose it because I really like it, so I'm importing it here.

The first shot rings true all through the desolate Oxford street. Thursday feels it in the cobbles beneath his feet, vibrating through his chest, singing in his ears. His throat closes, as do the throats of the police around him. He glances at Bright, he looks grim, jaw set.   
  
The promises in hostage situations don't usually come to pass. Any young man can wave a gun and shout in protest, but very few can pull the trigger. The shot reminds them all of what's at hand. A few minutes later there's another shot. The sound of broken glass that follows proves it hasn't hit a human target.  
  
Thursday reaches for the handle of his gun, sitting firmly in its holster. He curls his fingers round the cool metal and sets the other palm in his wrist. He turns. Bright is looking at him, almost curious. His brow is furrowed, he looks despairingly at Thursday, across to the embassy, back to Thursday.  
  
Thursday answers the silent question. "Our man's in there. I'm not holding off any longer."  
  
Bright gives a half nod betraying as little emotion as possible. "Wait for the negotiator," He says, voice without a trace of a shake.   
  
Thursday lets out a noise of frustration. "We don't have time."  
  
"There's nothing you can do."  
  
"I have to try."  
  
Bright extends a hand, pats him awkwardly on the arm. He's not one for human contact, Reginald Bright, that means this is serious.  
  
There's another shot. It decides everything for Thursday. He comes out from behind their blockade of cars and out into the open street. Already he feels vulnerable. The gun feels heavy in his fingers as he runs towards the colonnades of the embassy.  
  
"Thursday!"  
  
He ignores the shout.  
  
"Thursday! Stop!"  
  
A life of following rules, instincts kick in, he slows, turns. Bright is staring, inched slightly forward, and his face betrays an emotion now; fear. They stare at each other for a few moments. Thursday swallows nervously, his palm is sweating against the metal. Bright opens his mouth to speak, changes it to an intake of breath. Then he calls across the cobbles.  
  
"The back entrance on East." His voice carries like fragile Autumn leaves in the wind. "Be careful."  
  
Thursday nods and Bright returns it. It's hardly a blessing. He's certain they all think he'll get himself killed, and maybe he is a damned fool, but to hell if he'll leave Morse in there alone.

 

Stupidity rarely yields results of good favour. A swift hard blow to the back of his head is all it takes to render him unconscious, and now he's lying on his side on a cold marble floor, wrists bound painfully behind his back, a cloth shoved between his teeth.  
  
His mouth and throat are dry. He groans, a pain stabbing through his shoulder, and shifts to avoid crushing his hands. There's a tremor in his ribs, he can feel it in his chest, he's been lying on this cold floor for hours now.   
  
Warmth seems a distant memory in this moment, but Morse's mind wanders for all it's worth, and he closes his eyes, uses repetition, every technique he knows. There are people he longs to see in this moment, and there's one he is sure will be looking for him, fighting tooth and nail. Because that's what Fred Thursday does. Fierce justice above all and his desire for it is savage in his heart. Morse likes to think he's worth defending by the likes of Fred Thursday.  
  
He shifts slightly. The rope cuts deep, it burns every time he moves even the tiniest amount. He can feel the knot beneath his fingertips. It's not that thick, perhaps they assumed him to remain unconscious.  
  
It's slow and thankless worth. His wrist feels like it's on fire and there's stinging wet on his fingers before too long. The room he's in is dark, lit just by a tiny window in an upper corner and all the light that fits through the gap under the door. Outside it's eerily quiet. He assumes he has the time.  
  
The knot falls free in his hands and he holds a breath for a moment. The the rope slides to the floor and he exhales in relief. He brings his wrists in front of him. The right is red and sore, the left bloody. He pulls the gag from his mouth and lets it fall to the floor.  
  
He stands on fragile limbs and heads to the light that sketches out the door frame. His hand is on the door handle and his mind is too foggy to see sense or reason in that moment, so he turns it without thinking.  
  
The shot misses his head by inches, landing in the pain of glass next to him. It shatters too close to his ear and he flinches in shock. The moment to run is gone, he's too late, and he's been dealt the lowest hand.  
  
A blow falls on his temple, knocking him off his feet, his knees buckle. Someone catches him under his arms, but they're not there to support him. They exist only to hold him firm while a shower of punches rain down. Fists connect with his stomach and jaw and he thinks he feels a rib crack.  
  
When they've had their fill he's roughly tossed back into the dark room. There's shouts between men about what to do next. The rope wasn't enough, that much is clear. Metal closes round one wrist. The handcuff digs in sharp and painful into the wound already forming on his skin. The other clicks round the metal pipe of a radiator.  
  
Someone picks up the handkerchief he'd discarded on the floor. It's shoved unceremoniously into his mouth and then another piece of material is tied over it.  
  
If Morse is honest with himself, he knows why he hasn't fainted yet, knows exactly the reason he manages to be present. The instinct to survive is great of course, but under his breath a constant mantra keeps him steady. Far from alert, but definitely alive.  
  
"Thursday. Thursday. Thursday."  
  
It's barely a whisper, a murmur at best, and his assailants don't pay attention. They should, they should be more than wary at the very mention of his name, but they pay Morse no more heed other than to deliver a parting blow in the form of a kick to the stomach. They don't know what it means to anger a man who has nothing to lose and everything to gain.

 

Thursday puts much store in paperwork, but he didn't make it to the rank of Inspector with soft guiding hands and kind words. There's fight in him yet. He takes stock of the complicated winding corridors of the embassy building, and it doesn't take long to realise that the hostage takers and their hostages are being held in one room. This is an unplanned and messy operation. They have one gun between them, and these young men are inexperienced, this shouldn't be a problem.  
  
A man almost half his own height is standing guard at the door. He's distracted, smoking a cigarette, and he holds a pipe as his only weapon. Thursday waits for him to turn and stamp his cigarette out on the nearby windowsill. Then the barrel of his own gun is pressed to the man's back, and the hiss of a man with no mercy speaks close to the man's ear.  
  
"Not a sound if you want to live."  
  
The man freezes, whimpers. It only serves to confirm to Thursday, these men, boys, have no clue what they're doing. They'll be too easy to startle and he has to be careful, especially as he knows they're far too trigger happy.  
  
Thursday considers for a brief moment. He could question the man, but there's not much to gain. Use him as a bargaining chip, his own hostage perhaps, but to what end. For better or for worse, he raises the barrel of his gun and swiftly backhands the man across the back of his head. It's enough to stun. He catches the man round the waist, lowers him slowly to the floor, so that the impact makes minimal noise.   
  
Thursday's morality is far from sporadic, but the way he acts upon his fury leaves a lot to be questioned. In this moment however that's not important.   
  
He squints through the clouded glass that separates the corridor from the room. There's three of them, one gun between them, two bullets down. There's no time.  
  
The door isn't locked, but he kicks it down anyway. The element of surprise is what he needs. He's judged correctly, the man holding the gun drops it in shock and Thursday reacts immediately. He steps on the barrel, trapping it between his foot and the floor, points his own gun at the men.  
  
"Police. Hands up. Against the wall."  
  
They comply. It's too easy. Thursday glances at them all in tern, young with uncertain futures ahead of them, it's a shame. He looks between the hostages. Terrified, they're backed against the far wall.   
  
"Don't worry, you're safe now," He says, voice calm and reassuring. He bends slowly and reaches for the other gun, trains them both on the men, waits patiently for the hostages to file out into the corridor behind him. He takes stock, looking at all the faces full of fear.  
  
"Where's Morse?"  
  
He tries not to put any emphasis into his words. It's just a simple question, nothing more, there's no weight or emotion there.  
  
"Where's Morse?" He repeats again, louder this time. One of the men shuffles, another shifts, and the third mumbles something. 'The cop?' Thursday thinks he makes out.   
  
He cocks the gun, flicks it towards one of their faces. "Tell me. Now!"  
  
One of them nods to the room to the side. The door there is missing a pane of glass, smashed in pieces on the marble floor, and the lock is broken.  
  
"Nobody move."  
  
He backs away from them into the room. It's dark and for a moment he thinks it's empty and he's been tricked into entrapment, but then he hears a groan.  
  
It's guttural and painful and intense and Thursday starts. Only for a moment, then he's running towards the dark corner and ducking down to see.  
  
"Morse?" His voice is gentle, ever so quiet. From him it's alarming. "Morse? Can you hear me?"  
  
Morse senses something, a change of presence in the air, but his head hurts and pain is taking over all his faculties. He tries to speak.  
  
"Those bastards," Thursday says, reaching for the knot in the handkerchief that settles against the back of Morse's hair. He unties it as carefully as he can, then pulls the damp cloth from Morse's mouth. He lets his thumb linger on Morse's cheek for a second too long.  
  
"Can you speak?"  
  
Morse lets out a quiet sound. It's painful to hear.  
  
"Don't strain yourself. It's okay, I'm here."  
  
Morse breathes what could be interpreted as a sigh of relief, but the sound rakes through his lungs in an excruciating sounding rattle. Thursday winces.  
  
"You'll be fine. I have to leave you now, but it won't be more than a few seconds. I'm not leaving for good, okay?"  
  
Morse nods in understanding, but still finds himself leaning into Thursday's hand as it disconnects from his shoulder. Thursday turns his back on the distressing crumpled mess that is his junior officer, and heads back into the main room. The men are still standing there in a pathetic line.  
  
He doesn't waste time. He punches the closest one square in the face then raises his gun to the second. "Handcuff key. Now."  
  
The man fumbles in his pocket, a ball of nervous energy, then the tiny key is held out in his palm. Thursday takes it with a snarl on his face and rushes back to Morse.  
  
As he touches the metal cuff Morse lets out a moan. Thursday looks closer and in the darkness he makes out the blood dripping from Morse's wrist. He's angry, more angry than he's been a long time, but he quells that anger for the moment and holds Morse's fingers carefully in his own. He stays holding his hand while he unlocks the cuff, gently lowering his wrist.  
  
"Someone will look at that when we get out of here. Can you stand?"  
  
Thursday puts his hand out, ready to help Morse up, but the poor man's in far too fragile a state. He attempts to stand, his knees are weak and the pain in his rib keeps him from straightening upright.  
  
"Stop stop stop," Thursday says quickly, a firm hand pressing on Morse's shoulder. "Don't hurt yourself more."  
  
Thursday glances over his shoulder for a moment, then steadies himself, planting his feet. He passes one hand behind Morse's back, settling it round his waist, then puts the other under his knees. He's not as young as he once was, but formidable anger has given him enough strength for this.  
  
Morse is light in his arms and Thursday makes a mental note to prompt him to eat more. He's sure he can spare a sandwich, but that thought is for another day.  
  
He doesn't spare the men a glance and his courage allows him to turn his back on them. He almost dares them to make a move now. He doesn't think any of them would make it out alive at this point if he didn't have his hands full.  
  
"Close your eyes," He says to Morse as they reach the front door. The light will be too bright. If he had a spare hand he'd shield his eyes, but words are all he has at the moment.  
  
He carries Morse down the steps and towards the waiting barrier of police. Bright gives them both a concerned glance, but has eyes mostly for Thursday, and Thursday knows he won't hear the end of police procedural for a while.  
  
"We need an ambulance," He says quickly.  
  
"I don't...I don't need..."  
  
Thursday gives the protesting Morse's arm a brief squeeze. "Don't be ridiculous, I know a broken rib when I see one."  
  
Morse goes limp, his head resting against Thursday's chest. There's blood on his temple coupled with a rising bruise. Concussion is likely but that will pass, and a broken rib will keep him off work for a few weeks, then there's the trauma. Morse is stubborn and Thursday can tell he'll have to deal with that himself.  
  
He can feel his arms start to ache, but he'll hold Morse until the ambulance gets there, and then he'll go with him to the hospital. Later they'll call him a hero and he'll shrug it off, say he'd do it for any of them. The praise becomes irritating after a while. He tells the truth, he absolutely would risk his life in the name of duty, but there's something about Morse that would make him risk it tenfold. Something he can't quite put his finger on. But this won't stop him pouring over it in his mind, thinking about fingertips brushing against a bruised cheek, fragile fingers warm in his own palm, a light head resting on his chest, those moments will replay themselves. Not the fear and the pain and guns and the punches, but the quiet gentle touches, the tenderness.


End file.
